


Lionhearted

by thereddame



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Torture (Kinloch Hold), Dealing with Withdrawals, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Felix Comes to Skyhold, Happy Ending, M/M, Miscommunication, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Unresolved Sexual Tension, background Bull/M!Inquisitor, mentions of Kirkwall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-03-30 03:19:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19033687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thereddame/pseuds/thereddame
Summary: Soulmate AUCullen and Dorian are soulmates and share soulmate marks. Halfway across Thedas, Cullen sometimes shares Dorian's tattoo of a snake and Dorian shares Cullen's torture at the hands of the demons at Kinloch Hold. However, when Dorian joins the Inquisition, their soulmate bond strengthens, even though they have no idea why or who their soulmate really is. There is not much time to explore the mysterious writings that appear on their skin with Corypheus bearing down on them, working through their differences and misunderstandings, and saving the world.





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cap_Sweet_And_Salty_Sadness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cap_Sweet_And_Salty_Sadness/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday to the awesome [Cap_Sweet_And_Salty_Sadness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cap_Sweet_And_Salty_Sadness)! This b-day fic is for you-- an amazing friend who also writes beautiful stories. Thank you for all of your encouragement inside and outside of fandom <3 
> 
> Thanks to the lovely [SleepinginSunbeams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepinginSunbeams) for the beta!

  
_I'm not a saint, but I could be if I tried  
Lord knows I've got habits to break_  


* * *

It started with a snake. 

Well, truthfully, the whole business of soulmates started with Andraste and the Maker. 

They loved one another so much so, they refused to be parted and became one soul. Always connected, their celestial bodies became a canvas for words of love. This was the gift that they would give their children. 

Shared between soulmates, the burden of humanity could be measured, or so they hoped. 

However, these soulmate connections gifted to mortals had unforeseen repercussions and side effects.

These bonds did not allow for reliable communication, especially over long distances. Messages were always received inconsistently at the beginning, although physical proximity could help. As soulmates developed their relationship, the transmission of messages became more dependable. But, the connection never fully stabilized until intimacy and consummation not unlike marriage. 

Even scars and permanent markings like tattoos would flicker in and out of existence-- there one day, gone the next, and back in two weeks, only to be gone again.

But, it was transference of pain that came as a surprise. Extreme instances of physical pain would _always_ be shared among soulmates. _Always._

So, it started with Andraste and the Maker for the world. 

But, it started with a snake for Cullen. 

The tattoo bloomed beautifully across his hip, the snake’s coils racing down his upper thigh and with the tail ending at the top of his knee. Such a delicate but dangerous looking thing, and well done, though accompanied by pain-- halved as he bore his portion for his soulmate. 

The snake had red, lifelike eyes and a dark green and black body that coiled around the heft of his thigh. Any lovers that he had would be fascinated with it, always touching and drawing their fingers along the jewel tones. 

But, they would never last. 

Cullen had been thoroughly and possessively marked by a soulmate who probably didn’t know he even existed. 

No one else wanted a soul already taken, not even the demons. 

 

-xx- 

 

It started with excruciating pain for Dorian. 

At only eighteen years of age, Dorian Pavus, the only son of Tevinter Magister Halward Pavus, had become one of the greatest mages in Thedas, specializing in pyromancy, necromancy and theoretical magic. He'd been thrown out of over ten institutions of higher learning, fought more duels than he could remember, and was ready to bring change to the country he loved.

He was eighteen and _brilliant,_ when he shared his soulmate’s torture.

Dorian thought it would never end, hours of sharp pain that his soulmate could only bear because Dorian carried half of his burden.

He was tired for days afterward but unable to sleep. 

It took weeks to heal from the severe bruises and scrapes, even with the care Dorian took and the lotion that he applied. Nonetheless, he still bore the scars-- flickering in and out of existence. The ghost of another man’s pain upon his skin. 

He was unable to keep up with his theoretical research. He felt like he was mired in quicksand, his usually clever mind suddenly unable to manipulate complex ideas at speed. 

He lost patience with other Enchanters in the Minrathous Circle. Apparently, throwing fireballs at the heads of imbeciles warranted discipline for insubordination. 

He took a leave of absence and returned to Asariel to stay with his former mentor and teacher, Gereon Alexius. His best friend, Felix, would bring food to his door. However, the food often remained untouched.

No amount of wine, food, or kisses from his lover, Rilienus, could distract him from the echoes of what he and his soulmate had gone through together.

Dorian’s heart broke. He knew his father would never allow him to have a man as a soulmate. Although sharing his soulmate’s suffering was indescribable, the greater torment was that this common experience was all they would ever have. 

As Dorian recovered, he single-mindedly focused on his theoretical work with Alexius, the reform of Tevinter society, and a sequence of many and frequent lovers. 

But, it wasn’t enough.

His soulmate had appeared like a lion, fierce and terrifying. 

 

-xx-

 

“Inquisitor.” 

“Cullen! Er, Commander.” 

Cullen shakes his head in tired amusement. Though he’s a Trevelyan, Maxwell has never been very good at the official side of things. Besides, it’s pretty late and the two of them have always had an odd sleeping schedule that sometimes coincide.

They’ve become something like friends since Haven. ‘Commander’ and ‘Inquisitor’ seems to drop by the wayside when they’re alone. 

“You’re supposed to be in Redcliffe, Maxwell,” Cullen says and leans on the ramparts’ walls-- this particular one has seen much better days. 

“Yeah, well, _that_ sucked,” Maxwell replies and grins at his advisor.

Cullen glances at Maxwell standing at his right side. He can almost hear the unspoken indication that the trip to Redcliffe was hard and the situation with Dorian’s father even harder. 

“Something I need to see to or…” Cullen begins. 

“No, no. Nothing like that. I don’t think Dorian would appreciate the meddling anyway,” Maxwell muses. “His father is a dick.” 

Though it’s not proper form for the Commander of the Inquisition, Cullen snorts. 

“What! No, really. He is,” Maxwell says, hands gesturing as he speaks. “I guess I didn’t realize things were so _different_ in Tevinter. I mean, their mages are free in a way I … I only dreamed about and yet they don’t allow their sons or daughters to marry whomever they please?” 

Cullen rests his palm flat against the wall and listens quietly to Maxwell. Cullen has his own regrettable past with mages and his feelings are still a bit of a mess but he knows that he’s going to keep trying to be a better man than he was before. 

He refuses to give less to the Inquisition than he gave to far less worthy causes.

“And soulmates are just supposed to marry for bloodlines and heirs while keeping their other half a secret if they happen to be the ‘wrong’ gender. Doesn’t that sound _miserable,_ Cullen?” 

“Yes,” he replies, quietly. 

Maxwell rubs his jaw and glances at him. 

Cullen knows he is being unusually reticent and it shows in the distracted way he brushes his fingers along the cracks of the wall. 

“Are you alright?” Maxwell hazards, worried sounding even to Cullen’s ear. 

Cullen leans over a bit, elbows finding purchase on the stone and he peers down at the dark side of the mountain. Instead of answering, he focuses his mind on the constant wind that blows through the area surrounding Skyhold, as well as the voices of the Inquisition soldiers in the courtyard, and the merriment from the Herald’s Rest. 

Unfortunately, such an old castle has terrible insulation and sound seems to travel through the nooks and crannies. 

“Yes,” Cullen whispers, softly, again. He lifts one hand to rub at his own wrist and then draws his fingers along the vein in his arm. “I’m afraid I don’t know that much about Dorian or the Tevinter Imperium.” 

Maxwell hums a bit. “Maybe we should start making more of an effort.”

“We should,” he sighs. Then, apropos of nothing, adds, “Do you have a soulmate, Maxwell?” 

The Inquisitor frowns. “No… well, not that I know of. If I’ve got one, they could show up any day now, yeah? We could use some warm bodies to help with this little breach issue.” 

Cullen smiles and then clasps his fingers around his own wrist almost as if he’s hiding something. “Suppose we could. No more greenhorns, though. I’ve got enough of those trying to stick themselves with their own pointy end.” 

Maxwell snorts in amusement. “We can’t afford to be picky, Commander.” He claps Cullen’s shoulder and gives him a gentle squeeze. “You’re keeping them alive, you know. When they write about us in the history books-- _if_ they write about us-- they’ll write about us putting swords in children’s hands but they won’t give credit where it’s due and that’s with you, Commander. You keep us alive, you keep us upright, and you keep us brave.”

“I… thank you, Inquisitor.” Cullen is wary but appreciative of the recognition. 

Maxwell smiles in response and looks away from the darkened mountain range to meet his gaze. 

After a moment of companionable silence, Maxwell begins to change the subject. “You--” But abruptly breaks off when he sees Cole in the corner of his eyes. Cullen, always alert, turns almost a second later. His relaxed position now far more severe and upright, coiled for action. 

“He needs help,” Cole says, gaze darting down towards the Herald’s Rest where the sound of revelry has yet to cease. "There are so many people here. But he feels so alone. He looks for truth at the bottom of the bottle when he should be looking for a friend. Or a friend who could be more."

“Who, Cole?” Cullen asks, but Maxwell is already moving towards the ladder. 

“Dorian,” Cole answers, quiet, eyes never leaving the entrance to Herald’s Rest. 

Cullen doesn’t need to ask for more, he’s quickly in motion and on Maxwell’s heels. 

 

-xx-

 

“So, we gonna talk about Sparkler drinking himself into a stupor out there?” Varric comments, peering around the railing to watch their newest addition knocking back a unknown amount of undetermined liquor. 

A loud, raucous roar of pride and approval goes up from the Chargers. Dorian raises his now-empty glass following the cheer and another round is promptly ordered. There are congratulatory back slaps all around. 

“Tch, poor tosser. Lookit him.” Sera wrinkles her nose and leans forward, elbows resting on the top of the railing, and body leaning over the edge casually. One of the Chargers-- Krem-- looks up at them and Sera flips him off. 

Varric snorts and takes a long pull from his what’s-passing-as-Dwarven-ale. “Friend?”

“Nah, fuckin’ not. He has a starin’ problem, that one.” 

“Maybe he _wants_ to be friends,” he muses. Below them, Krem catches Dorian’s new and freshly filled drink with his unoccupied hand as the mage nearly knocks it off the table with his elbow. 

The room has delightfully uncoordinated drunks and drunk-adjacents down there. Varric is already committing the details to memory for a new scene in his book. 

Sera makes a face at _that_ and then nudges Varric. “Nah, we’re inna prank war. I’m winning. He’s jealous. Oi, aren’t you supposed to watch the…” 

Before she can complete that thought, there’s a loud crash downstairs. Someone tries to take Dorian’s drink-- a Templar or ex-Templar by the way he carries himself-- and Dorian stands up to his full height. 

The Chargers’ jovial attitude slips into tension and the other patrons go silent, awaiting the inevitable bar fight. 

“Shit,” Varric hisses and sets his ale on the railing. It’s haphazardly placed in his hurry to get downstairs to prevent whatever bloodshed is about to happen and looks ready to tip over. 

He notices Sera push the abandoned cup further back onto the ledge with one finger and then reach for her bow and arrows in case things get dangerous. 

“If you could kindly _fuck off._ I am perfectly capable of blasting you, an upstanding young Templar across the room, thank--” Dorian says as regally as he can though it’s bit slurred. 

“Sparkler! I was just looking for you. I found a dagger, needed a little blood for a ritual--”

Several things happen at once.

Dorian’s expression goes from indignant to exasperated, lips pressed in a thin line, as Varric rounds the corner to inquire about blood magic. It’s very obvious that the Templar hears ‘blood’ and ‘ritual’ and adjusts his stance to Smite the mage who was just an annoyance but has now become, what he perceives, an actual threat. 

The Templar readies his hand for _something_ though he doesn’t reach for his sword. 

Varric is familiar enough with Templars by now to know that a Smite is incoming. Even if this one might be an ex-Templar, he could have been recently recruited and still able to use those abilities. Either way, it’s going to hurt Dorian, who is swaying from drink and single-mindedly focused on the subject of his own indignation. 

Before Varric can cause another distraction to help Dorian and the Chargers get the upper hand, the door to the Herald’s Rest swings open and clatters hard against the wall revealing The Inquisitor. Maxwell is a sight for sore eyes, that’s for sure. 

“Boss!” 

Varric assesses the situation and sees the Inquisitor readying a fireball. He appreciates the Inquisitor’s show of support but adding _more_ fire is going to spell trouble for all of them. Before he can shout above the noise and offer an alternative plan to solve the discourse, Dorian creates his own swirling flame that dances in his hands. 

Things are about to get dicey here. Maybe he should get help before the Inquisitor does something rash. 

“What’s going on, here?” Maxwell draws himself up, staff held at the ready. Above them, Sera notches her bow and fires her shot to knock the enraged Templar’s cup from his hand without waiting on the answer. 

Varric curses under his breath. 

Before he can even take a step to the door, the Chargers take Sera’s loosened arrow as permission to start a bar fight. In the commotion, and in silent agreement, Krem and The Iron Bull seamlessly move to stand behind a drunk Dorian to back him up. 

Varric would be proud of them if he wasn't slightly worried they were about to set the Herald’s Rest ablaze. 

“For fuck’s sake,” Maxwell grumps, as Varric finally finds his footing and dodges behind a different table. 

“Little help here, boss!” Varric says, grabbing Bianca from her holster just as the Templar gets on with the Smiting. 

Maxwell smacks the end of his staff onto the ground and shields-- accompanied by the sharp smell of magic-- wrap around the members of his inner circle in preparation for the Smite and following chaos. 

But, nothing happens. 

Varric peeks his head around the table from his crouched position and looks towards the door where Commander Cullen, and _not_ his friend Curly, stands in the doorway looking far more tired than usual and obviously unhappy at the impromptu bar fight. 

While the drunk occupants of the tavern see nothing but Cullen stepping through the door, the combatants themselves feel more than the Commander’s displeasure. 

Dorian nearly doubles over, with one arm encircling his middle and the other tightening onto his staff for support, the fireball long extinguished. The shield that Maxwell had called forth flickers, snuffed out of existence, as the Inquisitor gasps in pain, but Sera doesn’t lower her bow as she is largely unaffected by the Spell Purge. 

Maxwell stares at Cullen, mouth slightly ajar. “How did you…” 

But, he doesn’t get to finish that question. Across from them, the aggressive Templar sputters with pain and wipes the back of his nose to stem his nosebleed. 

“What--” The Templar attempts but cuts himself off and tilts his head back, leaning heavily against the wall. 

The Commander hasn’t moved, he’s almost statue-like with arms held loosely at his side, feet slightly apart, and shoulders squared and he doesn’t acknowledge anyone but the Templar. 

“Commander--” 

“Lieutenant Holzer, _if_ you please--” 

“Commander, if I do say so--” Dorian attempts to interject. 

“No, you may _not_ say so, Ser Pavus,” Cullen snaps, a bit harsher than usual. 

“Commander, the _mage_ started--”

“Lieutenant Holzer, you _will_ be silent or I will Silence you.” 

Lieutenant Holzer abruptly stops speaking but stares at the Commander, clearly displeased by the order. 

“Dorian, are you alright?” Cullen says, looking away from the disobedient Templar. 

Dorian has barely found his feet, holding onto his staff with one hand, and the table with the other. Varric takes this as his cue to start wrangling the Chargers back and have Sera stand down. 

"Commander, Inquisitor, what a ... fortuitous moment for you both to appear. If I may - a quick word outside?" 

The Commander is eerily blank; only the edges of his exhaustion peeking through. It's the same obvious exhaustion he wears around Skyhold, Varric has noticed. 

“Sure, Dorian, let’s go outside.” Maxwell says in lieu of Cullen’s silence.

Cullen finally gives a quick nod and looks back to the Templar. “Report to my office. I will be there momentarily. _If_ you are not there, you’ll wish you stayed in Kirkwall, Holzer.” 

The Templar nods around his bloody mess of a nose and then quietly slinks out of the tavern. His movement seems to break the rest of the guests out of their shock of spectating and chatter starts again. 

With some quiet gesturing and a few promises of free drinks, Varric manages to get Bull, Krem, and the Chargers to stand down. It takes a bit more silent negotiation for Sera but she slowly lowers her bow though she continues to scowl down at them all. 

Behind him, Varric can hear the Inquisitor, Dorian, and the Commander leaving the Herald’s Rest for that private conversation. 

 

-xx- 

 

As soon as they make their way outside of the pub, Dorian fixes Cullen and Maxwell with a glare. He straightens up a little, relying much less heavily on his staff, as if his righteous indignation is somehow countering the effects of the spell purge as well as the alcohol he had consumed. 

_"Vishante kaffas!_ I understand that the Tevinter pariah must be monitored, but trust me when I say that I can handle myself around one Templar without any impropriety or abominations!"

Cullen frowns. 

Maxwell crosses his arms across his chest. “Dorian. We aren’t trying to monitor you.” 

Dorian swings around to glower at the both of them. "No? It certainly feels like I’m being monitored. I do not wish to undermine your authority Commander, Inquisitor, I am merely requesting that you allow me to function responsibly in the Inquisition, same as any other recruit."

After a moment of considering his words, Maxwell nods. “Yes. You’re right.” 

“He’s _right?”_ Cullen says, frown deeper than before. “Inquisitor, we have men who need to be watched, Dorian may not be one of them, but we have Templars fresh from the Chantry. It would do to protect them-- the mages, at the very least.”

“Protect ‘Them?’” Dorian echoes, in disbelief. 

“Yes, Dorian, _them._ You. The other mages. Maker, you know what I mean.” 

“Commander,” Maxwell begins, ready to interrupt the impending argument, but to Cullen’s surprise, he’s turning on him and siding with Dorian. “I know that _we_ mages may be difficult for you--”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all, Maker’s _blood,_ Maxwell!” Cullen paces and then turns to face the two of them, his expression is stricken. “I know how they think, Inquisitor. Dorian. I’m asking you both to be careful.” 

“How _they_ think?” Dorian echoes, his face stony and impassive. “As if all mages think the same way, are trained the same way, turn to blood magic the same way and become abominations the same way. It has become abundantly clear that respectful discussion has become impossible.” 

”I wasn’t talking about the mages, _Dorian,_ Maker! I was meant the Templars-- I know how _they_ think. If you would stop jumping to conclusions, I could explain myself properly.” Cullen throws his arms out, anger at being interrupted obvious. 

Dorian abruptly stops speaking for a moment. Both the Commander and mage stare at one another for a moment and Cullen isn’t sure who will break first. Then, Dorian holds himself upright, even moreso. 

“I see. I think it’s best I endeavor to stay out of your affairs, Commander, and I trust that you will stay out of mine. Goodnight, Commander. Inquisitor."

Before either of them can respond to the misunderstanding and clear the air, Dorian spins around and leaves them. Beside him, Cullen hears Maxwell exhales loudly, clearly releasing pent up energy for what was almost a second fight. 

“That went well,” Maxwell says, watching Dorian’s retreating form up the stairs. 

“I don’t think that’s what you’d call _well,”_ Cullen says, gaze following Dorian, too. Cullen rests his palm against the exposed wooden beam of the tavern’s framework to hold himself upright. 

Their reprieve from the charged air of the bar fight and the secondary disagreement lasts for only a moment because the door to the Herald’s Rest opens and closes behind them. 

“Hey--oh, Boss. Curly.” 

“Varric,” Cullen says, quietly, and packs away the anger and frustration that he feels. At his side, Maxwell turns with Cullen to face Varric so they are standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Together, they look like they’re about to face down the council with one of their mutual, hair-brained ideas. 

“Uh, just wanted you both to know you were just doing the right thing. Everyone saw Holzer casting the Smite. That woulda really knocked Sparkler for a loop and--” 

“Thank you, Varric,” Cullen replies, stiffly. He doesn’t like the way Varric is watching him-- warily as if he’s expecting something else from him. He shouldn’t be surprised. Varric saw the worst of him in Kirkwall. 

Then Inquisitor is worryingly silent and when Cullen looks at him, too, he can see Maxwell putting a few things together.

“I’m just sayin’ that you _helped,”_ Varric adds, unwilling to let the point drop. 

Cullen knows Varric is trying to be _supportive_ but he wishes it wouldn’t be so obvious. He frowns and moves jerkily away from the doorway and Varric. “Thank you.” 

He disappears in a swirling mantle of cloth and fur, leaving Varric and Maxwell standing together. He can’t hear them this far away but they look at one another and he doesn’t have to hear them to know they’re discussing his behavior. 

“Commander!” 

Cullen groans quietly but pauses his stride long enough for the runner to catch up with him. 

“Message for you.” 

“Yes, obviously,” he snaps, irritably, and then sighs at his own reaction. This man doesn’t deserve his ire. After taking the missive, he rubs at his temple, a headache already forming behind his eyes. “Thank you, dismissed.”

Once the runner takes his leave, Cullen breaks the seal to read the report. It’s important but doesn’t require his attention tonight. 

He rolls the parchment up, tucks it under his arm, and returns to his office. 

 

-xx- 

 

Dorian trails his fingers along the cool stone of Skyhold as he makes the familiar way up to his library. He is mostly sober now, but his blaze of anger at the Commander still flickers and the fear from the Templar in Herald's rest still present despite how _tired_ he feels.

Some days, he is not sure why he stays in this cold, boorish, intolerant place. New recruits veer sharply to avoid his path, Templars glare at him with narrowed eyes, and even the other mages often gaze at him with distrust. 

He wonders if it might be better to go _somewhere_ else -- anywhere else -- that isn’t here. Perhaps the Inquisitor has a terrible mission battling beastly, foul-smelling foes, enduring atrocious weather and eating detestable food, to provide him with a well-needed respite from the comforts of the fortress.

He’s so _alone_ here in Skyhold. 

Alexius misused the research they had collaborated on for a decade to almost cataclysmic effect.

Dorian’s father tried, unsuccessfully, to change him, to bend his son to his will. He was eager not only to misunderstand and ignore his son’s authentic self, but also to obliterate it.

And ordinary people? Ordinary people simply do not understand; they cannot see anything from any perspective other their own. They try to ‘protect’ mages’ lives by taking away their opportunities to live. Smite first, think later. 

Alone is better. 

Dorian sinks down onto his bed and wraps his arms around himself. He is physically and mentally exhausted. He hastily wipes away the moisture collecting at his eyes. 

The movement draws his eyes to his wrist where he’d written _I need you_ to his soulmate earlier. 

Unanswered. 

The man seems to appear at the most inopportune times but never when he needs him most, despite the agony Dorian has shared for him.

Quietly, he hides his arms under the pillow and forces himself to close his eyes. It is not until the sun begins to rise that Dorian sleeps at last.

Yes, alone _is_ better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written to/lyrics at the top: [I'm Not a Saint - Billy Raffoul](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ro5_Ur3kJPk)
> 
> Let's hang out on [Tumblr!](https://the-red-dame.tumblr.com/)
> 
> We can also hang out on the [Cullrian Discord!](https://discord.gg/WpPAGQJ)


	2. two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the lovely [SleepinginSunbeams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepinginSunbeams) for the beta! Thanks again for sticking with me and my three rewrites of this chapter ;D

  
_Careful waking up the giants  
He's a bigger man and a better man than I am_

* * *

Unfortunately, clearing up the misunderstandings that occurred at the Herald’s Rest two nights ago would have to wait.

Being so inundated with work does not leave Cullen much personal time. Not that he minds, usually. He _is_ dedicated to the Inquisition, after all. 

Normally, he would push through his tiredness but, lately, it’s become difficult. Lyrium withdrawal can do that to a person. Not only have his headaches increased in frequency but he’s having difficulty regulating his body temperature and controlling his irritability. 

Everything feels _too_ much. 

Even putting on his cuirass for the day is a struggle. The touch of the metal against his hypersensitive skin makes him queasy and sick. 

Not to mention the nightmares. But, those have been Cullen’s constant companions since Kinloch Hold. 

And, the stunt he pulled with the Spell Purge came with a price. Not only did it aggravate his skin’s sensitivity, but he feels perpetually tired and has a constant headache that just won’t quit. 

When he finally does take that much-needed break, he finds himself contemplating the chess board and the events prior at the Herald's Rest. Of which, there already seems to be numerous, wild rumors.

Rumors like _unrestrained mages_ and a _fireball-wielding_ Inquisitor. 

He’s done his best to curb gossipers but to no avail. He’s even asked Leliana to intervene. She’s proven herself adept at this sort of thing by removing problematic and untrustworthy agents in the past. 

He’s often a broadsword in these matters when the situation calls for someone with more finesse. 

Mostly, though, he’s been avoiding Maxwell _and_ Dorian. Maxwell: so he doesn’t have to explain his flagging Templar abilities and Dorian: because he isn’t quite sure how to handle their exchange. 

What happened, and how did he and Dorian escalate such an argument so quickly? Cullen had not meant to botch the exchange as thoroughly as he had and now he’s not sure where he stands with Dorian. 

Nevertheless, back to the game at hand, in the refuge of Skyhold’s gardens.

Staring at the blasted chessboard is not quite the distraction he had in mind but that’s all he can do at the moment. The headache that began this morning has become too much and he’s unable to truly occupy his thoughts. He's too distracted by the constant pulsing.

With one last attempt, he reaches out to touch the pawn and initiate a game with himself. 

Cullen plays haphazardly for a few turns before the pounding pressure behind his eyes finally becomes too much. With a sigh, he tips his king and stands up, stretching a bit, before making his way back towards his office. 

Maybe being out here isn’t what he needs right now. 

Surprisingly, he arrives in his office without being stopped once.

Inside, he removes his vambraces for the comfort of writing but leaves the rest of his armor on. Then he settles behind his desk to retrieve a few reports left from Jim. It’s light and easy work-- something that can be the diversion he needs and still qualify as ‘resting.’ 

A few ledgers later, he allows his distraction to focus on his bared arm instead of his responsibilities. Unbidden thoughts of his soulmate rise to the surface and he can’t help but think about the message from the other night on the ramparts. 

After one second of indecision, he grabs his quill to write:

 _I’m sorry._

He doubts his soulmate will see this message but he feels compelled to apologize for not answering their previous message. He had been unable to find a quill in time and Maxwell’s arrival interrupted any other attempt at communication. 

Cullen doesn’t _enjoy_ writing letters. Mia is quick to let him know that his correspondence could use some work. He doesn’t expect to have a grand epistolary adventure with his soulmate but he can’t help but be curious about them. 

In his musings, he nearly misses the response. But, there, on his forearm on the inner side, is beautiful and obviously scholastic handwriting that does not belong to him. His writing is legible but rushed because he can’t linger over reports. But, _this_ is someone who enjoys writing or has been taught to do so. 

He wishes he knew more about his soulmate. For most of his life, that person has been just an abstract thought of pain and a colorful tattoo. 

_I see nothing that requires an apology... are you injured?_

Cullen blinks in surprise, hand frozen in motion, because he didn’t expect a reply. He shakes himself out of it and plucks his quill from its place on the desk. 

_Yes. Well, no._

Right. He’s awful at this because he never knows what to say. He doesn’t want to explain things. Cullen never has the words for that. 

He worries that he’s taken too long in his self-deprecation or that the connection has waned because a reply is not forthcoming. As he is about to give up hope, he sees that elegant script once more. 

_Reticent, are you? No matter. I can write enough for the both of us. What do you mean by that, dearest?_

A second message in two days. A response to a question. Were… were they close in proximity somehow? He wouldn’t dare hope his soulmate be a member of the Inquisition. 

Their exchanges have never occurred more than once in such a short time.

Allowing himself to enjoy the conversation, Cullen huffs a quiet laugh at the response. He’s not sure if his soulmate is a woman or a man-- both being a possibility -- but something tells him he’s speaking with a man. Men have always been his preference though he’s never let something like sex determine his affection for someone. 

_Injured… after a fashion. But, it’s an old wound._

He’s not willing to reveal that he’s just a broken down Templar to his soulmate. 

He holds his breath and waits on some sort of response or acknowledgement. But, after a few minutes of silence, he can see the words start to fade away-- as they do when the connection has been severed. _Of course_ he'll not get a response.

With lyrium withdrawals running hot and his own frustration almost razor sharp, he stands up and sweeps everything off of his desk, allowing it all to crash to the floor in a loud clatter. 

Now left with his own hollow dissatisfaction, Cullen collapses into his chair and drops his head into his hands. 

 

-xx-

 

“Hi. Can I talk to you about the Maker, Cullen?”

When he opens the door later that afternoon, he doesn’t expect Maxwell to be leaning casually against the wall. Neither does he expect _that_ particular question.

“I… _excuse me?”_

“You’re excused.” Maxwell winks at him. 

The audacity. 

Cullen cannot help his reflexive smile at the Inquisitor’s absurdity. Cullen _has_ brothers and he knows how to handle them, but Maxwell is more like two little brothers combined in one ridiculous, redheaded package. He knows how lucky they are that the Inquisitor puts his mischievousness to good use for the Inquisition. 

Otherwise, the _Herald_ would be heralding something other than peace. 

“I don’t know what I could possibly tell you about the Maker, Maxwell.” 

Maxwell must sense Cullen’s reserved fondness for him or hear it in Cullen’s tone because Maxwell's smile softens. 

However, when his friend leans his shoulder against the door, Cullen noticeably puts distance between them. Despite the years that have passed, he’s not comfortable with others in his personal space without warning or Cullen initiating it first. A habit learned in Kirkwall.

“Good. Because that’s a diversion to get you to open the door. What I _really_ want to know is if you’ll talk to Dorian?” 

Without blinking an eye, Cullen shuts the door on the Inquisitor just as his friend finishes speaking. He really has too much work to do today without Maxwell trying to get him to apologize to Dorian Pavus. 

“Hey! Wait--”

Cullen grunts quietly as Maxwell wedges his boot between the door and the frame. He knows it’s a lost battle when the Inquisitor smiles like he knows he’s won. 

Cullen concedes the stand-off and reluctantly opens the door so Maxwell can slip through.

“Maxwell--” 

Maxwell waves away Cullen’s protest and hops up on the Commander’s desk. It wobbles a bit. “What the hell is wrong with your desk, Cullen?”

“Sera, I think. I can’t catch her in the act of it but she giggles and mimes shooting arrows at me every time I see her.” 

“She mimes shooting arrows at everyone. I think that’s how she shows affection...,” he pauses, “I _think.”_

“Reassuring,” Cullen sighs. 

Maxwell rocks the desk a bit more and snickers. Cullen turns his back on his playful Inquisitor before Maxwell can see his terrible attempt to hide his smile at the redhead’s amusement. 

“Okay, let’s be serious. Stop playing around, _Cullen,_ this is very serious Inquisition business…” He snickers again. “Hm, we need to find a way to un-piss the pissed off mage.” 

“I don’t think that’s a word--”

“It is now,” Maxwell hums. “You should invite him to play chess. You can apologize for the other night.” He hops off of the desk and then pokes Cullen hard in the chest. 

“Yes, yes. I heard you the first time,” Cullen swats Maxwell’s poking finger away and makes a face at him. “I’d like to defend my intentions and say that I was _worried_ about Dorian. Which is why I stepped in to start-- _you_ were there, Maxwell. And, if I recall, he was also angry with you. Why am I the only one to apologize?” 

_“Cullen,_ because I said he was right that night and I apologized _that night_ but you haven’t yet.” He shrugs. “He said he’s trying to prove himself. Which’ll be hard when folks see him as a damsel in distress.” 

“I’ve never once considered Dorian a _damsel,”_ Cullen mutters. 

Maxwell claps Cullen’s shoulder and gives him a gentle squeeze. “Seriously, Cullen, you were just doing your job. But, go invite the scary magister to play chess and show him that you trust he can take care of himself. So, you don’t scare away my favorite mage and everyone loves everyone. Bam, suddenly there’s peace in Skyhold and then we only have to worry about the rest of Thedas.” 

Cullen reaches up to pat Maxwell’s hand. He is trying to maintain a straight, serious face but he does smile a little anyway. “Maxwell, he’s an Altus, _and_ I don’t think it’ll be that easy. But, I suppose I can try your advice,” Cullen acquiesces. 

He thought he’d hate working for a man who always has a grin on his face and a tease on his lips but it’s been… nice not to _fear._ He’s served under tyrants too long to expect better for himself. 

Maxwell is a breath of fresh air. 

“Right,” Maxwell agrees and drops his hand to his side. “I listen to your boring advice all the time. Trust me on this. If there’s _one thing I know,_ it’s people. Sometimes it scares Bull that I can read people.” 

Cullen smiles and feigns innocence. “Becoming friends with the Iron Bull then?” 

Maxwell snorts and combs his fingers through the back of his hair, and shrugs. “Maybe, I don’t know. He likes to hunt dragons and he keeps me alive on the field. What’s not to like? I thought I should get to know the guy, right?”

As Maxwell’s best and favorite advisor, Cullen agrees with that sentiment. He also thinks the Iron Bull likes Maxwell in more than one way, though Cullen is a bit fuzzy on those details. He’s just seen the way that Bull gravitates towards Maxwell. “Yes, Maxwell. You should.” 

The Inquisitor seems distracted or thoughtful about what he’d say. Ever the strategist, Cullen takes this moment to open the door and gently nudge his friend out of it. He needs to think on ‘how to ask the Tevinter Altus to play chess’ but he does his best thinking alone.

However, the runner at the door foils his plans and seems to snap Maxwell out of his Bull-induced thoughts. 

Cullen takes the paper and thanks the woman. Then, when they’re alone again, he gestures to Maxwell. As much as he’s enjoyed seeing his friend, they have Inquisition business to attend. 

“Inquisitor, if you would kindly excuse--”

“Yeah, yeah. You want me to go away so you can read that. Anything I need to worry about?” Maxwell bounces on his heels and then shifts his weight to his toes so he can try to look over Cullen’s shoulder. 

He isn’t hiding official business and Maxwell needs to see anyway so Cullen hands him the missive. “Crestwood.” 

Maxwell passes the letter back and sighs. “Yeah, looks like it. Talk soon, Cullen. I need to get a few things put together for the trip.” 

He nods and follows Maxwell to shut the door behind him but pauses when he sees a familiar figure standing in the courtyard. 

Dorian. 

He tilts his head curiously. 

Even from this distance he can see Dorian frowning at him and then turning to leave. Perhaps, this is going to be harder than simply asking the other man to a game of chess. 

Another time, then. 

 

-xx- 

 

Cullen sees Maxwell, Varric, Dorian, and Sera off at the gate, a few days later, where they’re on their way to Crestwood. During these goodbyes, Dorian pointedly does not look at him. However, he isn’t the only busy one. Everyone is occupied with preparing for the trip ahead. But, Cullen knows the truth of things. He still hasn’t found the time to discuss what happened between them but now is not the time. 

He’s not the only one at the gate seeing them away. The Iron Bull keeps trying to meet his gaze and catch his attention before he turns away from the group. 

“Cullen!” 

He pauses his step to wait on Bull to catch up with him. Honestly, he’s not sure _why_ Bull wants to speak with him other than their mutual interest in keeping the Inquisitor alive. They’ve managed to only share a few unimportant conversations here and there-- all exceedingly polite and a bit awkward after Bull complimented his leadership. 

But, Cullen has never been good with praise. 

“Yes?” 

“Drink? Drink.” 

“I’m not sure that was a _question_ but--”

“You, me, and a drink. I have questions.” Bull gives him a smile. 

Cullen has never been on the receiving end of that smile and he’s not sure what to do with it. Bull’s smile is vaguely threatening but… in a _nice_ way. 

“You have… questions,” he echoes, unsure if he’d heard the Qunari correctly. 

“Yes, questions.”

The Iron Bull looks _determined_ about something. 

“I… can do my best.” He tries, and follows the Iron Bull towards the Herald’s Rest. He takes a seat across from Bull and glances around to see if maybe he’s missing something-- a surprise party or… something else. 

“So, are you and the Inquisitor…” 

Ah, looks like it’s just an interrogation then. 

Cullen distractedly orders water-- it’s too early for alcohol-- and then turns his attention towards Bull just as he trails off. “Are we… _what,_ exactly?” 

“Well, are you… I’ve noticed…” 

Maxwell assures him that Bull is a man of many words and opinions though his observations are always carefully crafted and thought out. _This_ Bull seems preoccupied with his thoughts. 

Cullen takes a polite sip of his water just as Bull decides to tell him what’s on his mind. 

“Together. Fuckin’.” 

He’s thirty years old. Truly, he shouldn’t let things surprise him but _that_ surprises him. It takes everything he has not to choke on his water. Bull’s eyes widen and he leaps up from his seat to pound Cullen on his back. 

It doesn’t help, not really. 

Cullen waves Bull off and clears his throat several times before he feels like he can both form words and not continue to choke. “I’m-- Maker, it’s fine. I’m … no, Bull, we’re not… together.” 

“You sure, ‘cause you’re pretty close,” he says and settles back in his chair across from Cullen. 

He furrows his brow a bit and sets his water on the table. “I’m _sure_ we aren’t together. We’re close because Maxwell and I are friends.” 

The Iron Bull nods. Cullen expects something else to be said but his companion is just staring at his mead. “So…” 

Bull looks up. “So?” 

It’s minorly alarming to have Bull’s full attention like this. It’s almost like Bull is leeching his secrets by staring at him. Cullen hides his uncomfortable shifting by drinking more of his water. “So… ask Maxwell to dinner or …?” 

“Or … ask him to fuck?” 

“I, er, well, ah, _no.”_

The Iron Bull, blast him, bursts out laughing. “You shoulda seen your face!” 

“Hilarious,” Cullen says, more of a grumble than anything else. “I’m being serious here, Bull.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Bull concedes. He seems distracted by something but that cloud of melancholy disappears a moment later and Cullen is looking at someone who was trained very well to hide his expressions and thoughts. He gets the feeling that he was only allowed to see what he saw out of respect for being Maxwell’s friend. “Thanks, Cullen, for your approval.” 

“Wait, I didn’t _give_ my approval.” 

“Yes, you did, or I wouldn’t be sitting here and having a pint with you.” Cullen frowns but Bull pushes on. “Listen, I may not have known exactly what you did the other night but I noticed you have a certain talent for countering fire with fire. I also pay attention-- you’re good at pretending, Commander, but you’re not _that_ good. Me ‘n the crew would have been dead and gone already if you didn’t approve of us.”

Cullen is shaken. He’s never been sussed out so completely by someone he’d held at a distance. They are severely underestimating the Iron Bull and he’ll be sure to update Leliana.

“Then, I’m sure you’re aware I mean it to the fullest extent when I say, if you’re out to hurt Maxwell then I would have words. Very sharp, very _pointed_ words.” Cullen doesn’t mean ‘words’ at all but he has a feeling that Bull can infer what he’s saying without spelling it out for him. 

Bull laughs and picks his drink up to touch it against Cullen’s in a show of agreement, and a bargain struck. Not much of a toast with water but Cullen accepts all the same. 

“So, you have any intel on how long this’ll take and when they’ll be back from Crestwood?” 

Cullen shakes his head. “I wish I could help, Bull, I do. But, we’re in the dark here. I imagine it’ll be soon, Maker willing. Empress Celene’s ball at the Winter Palace is… well, hanging over our heads and the Inquisitor isn’t one to let duty sit idly.” 

Bull nods in silent agreement. Though he gazes off towards the flurry of cheery drinkers, he seems to be finished with the interrogation and conversation. Cullen is comfortable enough with companionable silence that he finishes his drink before quietly excusing himself. 

He must have given Bull quite a bit to think about because the Qunari just raises his hand in goodbye before he goes back to watching the crowd and, presumably, thinking. 

With that, Cullen takes his leave. 

 

-xx-

 

It’s been two weeks since Maxwell left for Crestwood. Empress Celene’s ball continues to inch closer and closer-- as does the necessity for Cullen’s new dress uniform. He’s worried about freedom of movement but Josephine and the tailor assure him that this is the current style. 

He highly doubts _that_ but he’s never been one for fashion. 

“Commander!” 

He’s fighting yet _another_ headache and a few sore spots where the tailor’s needles jabbed sensitive skin, so he really doesn’t want to stay and chat. However, no matter how tired his body feels or how exhausting it is to hold himself upright, he must attend. He stays his step long enough for Jim to catch up with him. 

“Yes?”

“Ah, sorry to bother you, Ser, but we’ve news of a visitor.” Without breaking his stride, Jim dodges one of the Mabari pups who shoots out from a hiding spot beneath some piles of hay. 

“A visitor?” He pauses and turns to face the runner. His abrupt change of pace seems to take Jim by surprise, because his faithful agent dances back two steps to face him again. 

“Yes, Ser, Tevinter Imperium, looks like. Haven’t gotten official word yet but a smart man’d put him in league with the Magister from Redcliffe we’ve got shackled up.”

At first, Cullen assumes that Jim is referring to Halward Pavus but they don’t have that magister in custody. Though, according to Maxwell, they really should. He really doesn’t have time to be thinking of the younger Pavus. Dorian… well, he still owes him something of an apology-- doesn’t he? Though, Cullen isn’t entirely sure the apology should be all on his shoulders-- something they’ll have to work out once he’s returned from Crestwood. 

“Gereon Alexius?” 

“Ah, yes, that’s the--” Jim pauses, interrupting himself. 

Since Jim stopped him close to the entrance of Skyhold, Cullen can hear the commotion that usually follows a visitor's arrival. He thanks Jim and then makes his way towards the activity. 

Standing at the entrance is a man dressed in dark and neutral, but well-made, traveling clothes. He looks unwell-- _sickly_ even. He definitely looks like he shouldn’t have ridden however far and long on horseback by himself. It’s the Maker’s Will that the traveler is even upright. 

Mostly upright as he’s leaning quite heavily against the horse. 

Cullen easily parts the crowd. Commander is a heavy title but commanding is where he is most comfortable. That responsibility keeps him grounded and gives him a reason to persist through his lyrium withdrawal. 

“Ah, hello. My name is … oh,” the new arrival tries to introduce himself but is interrupted as he loses the ability to stand.

Someone breaks from the crowd to call for a healer but the visitor waves the concern off. Cullen nods to support the decision to not call for a healer.

Then, he kneels next to the fallen man and offers his arm to help. “Sorry, didn’t quite catch that name.” Though he has an idea. Cullen read Felix’s reports for the Inquisition but he’d never talked to him until this moment. He’s not surprised that Felix doesn’t recognize him as he’s often wearing more armor in the field. 

“Right, my apologies. That would be Felix Alexius.” 

“Felix. I’m Commander Cullen Rutherford.” Cullen greets him but is still somewhat wary. But, only because the Inquisitor has yet to sentence the elder Alexius and so Cullen can’t allow Felix to see his father. 

He’s preparing to say exactly that when Felix interrupts his thoughts, “Hello Commander. I’m looking for Dorian. Is he-- here?” 

The way that Felix pauses over ‘here,’ makes Cullen think that, perhaps, that was not the first question he was going to ask. But, he has no cause to inquire further. “No, he’s away on Inquisition business.” 

“Oh,” Felix says, disquieted. 

“He should return soon. Can I make you comfortable until then?” He waits long enough for Felix to nod in agreement. Cullen motions for someone to take Felix’s bags and stable the horse. 

Felix seems to appreciate the hospitality and doesn’t decline Cullen’s help. “How is he?” 

“Er, Dorian?” 

Felix nods though he struggles with both the conversation and movement into the halls of Skyhold. Maybe the discussion should be saved until they’re alone and where Felix can catch his breath in the guest quarters. 

“Here, let’s get you settled first and then we can have that conversation.” 

After helping Felix to a guest room, Cullen makes quick work of sending for refreshments and calling for that delayed healer. And, once he’s finished with those errands, he returns. 

Felix has changed out of his traveling gear and is wearing soft and yellow clothing instead. Comfort is important when your body feels sick and Cullen knows that from experience. Those are the days he opts to work without his armor. 

He takes a seat in the armchair next to the bed and waits for Felix to acknowledge him. 

“Commander, thank you.” 

“Thanks are not necessary, Felix, you’re a valued asset to the Inquisition.” 

His guest huffs a soft laugh but doesn’t disagree. 

The atmosphere is stilted and a bit awkward though Cullen thinks that’s mostly him. Felix has been a very complimentary guest thus far.

“I bet you frustrate him,” Felix says, after a moment of quiet, and then settles back against the mountain of pillows provided to him. 

“Who is that now?” 

“Dorian.” 

“I, ah, well… that is … astute of you.” 

Felix’s response is quiet laughter. “Has he challenged anyone to a duel lately? He never could back down from a fight.” 

“Not… quite.” 

“Is he hoarding any and all the books he can find?”

“I believe so, yes.” Turns out, Cullen doesn’t actually know _that_ much about Dorian. 

“Like a magpie. You know, when we were younger, I used to tease him for it.” Felix rubs the spot over his heart and then higher where there must be strain from riding. “But then… I teased him less when there was a reason to hoard those books.” 

Cullen doesn’t have to ask to know that Felix is referring to his sickness. Dorian had been forthright about that when he’d pleaded for Gereon’s life. A decision that still has yet to be made.

“Well, you’ll be happy to know that he’s commandeered an entire library.” Cullen says with a small, tentative smile. 

“I am happy then. He’s getting comfortable here.” 

“The Inquisition is trying to make it comfortable for him and others like him.” Cullen has nothing personal to say on Dorian’s comfort but the Inquisition is trying to provide for mages and other such outcasts. Which is something that Dorian and Cullen seem to have in common. 

Felix turns towards Cullen, curiosity piqued, if his furrowed brow is anything to go on. Cullen waves his hand a bit to try and dismiss the conversation but Dorian isn’t the only stubborn Tevinter to arrive in Skyhold. 

“I thought you were the mage-killer,” Felix says, more somber than he’s been all night. 

“No, that’s--” Cullen protests. 

They both abruptly go quiet at once. 

Cullen is stinging and Felix is a mystery, though he watches Cullen in a way that makes Cullen uncomfortable. This is the second time in two weeks where he’s had an odd conversation with someone about his intentions and feelings towards mages. 

Intentions and feelings that he believed he already worked through once Kirkwall was behind him. 

Of course, every once in a while an unpleasant thought will make itself known and he’s instantly disgusted with himself. The Chantry’s conditioning and prejudices resonate deeply in difficult times. 

However, he’s going to be _better._

He has to be. He’s not that man anymore and he’s never going to be again. 

“That’s what?” Felix asks. 

“I’m sorry.” Cullen says instead, voice thick and quiet from withheld emotions.

“You don’t owe me an apology,” Felix says, just as quiet. “Dorian told me what I’d left him to, you know. This… organization. I was going to let him pull one over me-- ‘I’m fine, Felix, really. Off you go, don’t die’ -- but the further away from him I got, the more unsure I became.” He sighs and rubs that spot on his chest again, almost as if he’s seeking to comfort a phantom pain. 

Cullen isn’t sure what to say so he remains silent, for now. 

Felix continues on. “He’s never really fit in, you know, with the others back home. Always wanting to do _better._ Wanting to make things _better.”_ Felix looks at him again, and Cullen feels like he’s being sized up. “Maybe a bit like you, yeah? If the _Inquisition_ is making mages comfortable. Someone in its leadership thought to do so.” 

“We try.” 

“I’m sure Dorian doesn’t make it easy for you.”

“I… if things were easy, Ser Alexius, then they wouldn’t be worth doing.” Cullen says. His headache is making itself known, a dull roar at his temples that is quickly gaining ferocity. “I hate to cut this short but I’ve a few things to attend. I will return tomorrow? I have some reports for you and perhaps we could discuss more on the Tevinter Imperium.” 

“And Dorian?” Felix asks, with a smile. 

“Er, sure. We can discuss Dorian. But, I really must be going.” He doesn’t truly have any business elsewhere but they both need their rest and he'd like to end this conversation. He's not sure if he'll have the answers Felix wants. 

With a quiet goodbye, Cullen takes his leave.

 

-xx-

 

In the Western Approach, the Orlesian Grey Wardens begin to assemble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and comments! <3 I love reading and responding to them! 
> 
> This chapter was written to/lyrics at the top: [Waking Up The Giants - Grizfolk](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xk0mLuZB15Q)
> 
> Let's hang out on [Tumblr!](https://the-red-dame.tumblr.com/)
> 
> We can also hang out on the [Cullrian Discord!](https://discord.gg/WpPAGQJ)


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